


Make Me Dance I Want To Surrender

by mixterhodgins



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Case Fic, Dominance, First Time, Lapdance, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Sex Work, Stripper Reese, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover As Prostitute, which i hope to make a much more complete tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixterhodgins/pseuds/mixterhodgins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Best of luck, Mr. Reese,” came Finch’s inscrutable voice through the earpiece, the last thing John registered before the bright spotlights and salacious cheering of the crowd temporarily stunned him. He hesitated a second, only a second, at the top of the stage. His eyes got used to the light, and he could clearly see the faces of the men watching him- some were smiling, hooting, others looking intensely concentrated, all staring straight at him.<br/>(Or, Reese is undercover as a stripper and Finch finds it very difficult to focus on the number)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first of all thank you for reading this fic!! its my first in this fandom and i'd really love it if you left a comment letting me know what you think! second- though john strips in this chapter, there's no actual sex until the next, and therefore some of the tags are preemptive. also, the title is from "i didn't see it coming" by belle & sebastian
> 
> please shoot me a message if you want to talk at http://lionelfusco.tumblr.com ! i always like to make new friends

“I’m backstage, Finch,” whispered John Reese from the relative privacy the strip club’s employee bathroom offered. “Don’t have eyes on Dandolo right now, but I’m searching the latrine for the money. Might have stashed it on his way in.” The clunk of John dropping the toilet tank lid back into place echoed through the private line. “Might be out of luck, though,” he continued as he began rifling through the under-sink cabinet. Wet wipes, mouthwash, lube, single-use enemas, but no sign of the two million dollars cash that their number had stolen from his dealer.

“I’m sure you’ll find another way to convince him,” Harold replied over the stream of chatter and dance music his feed broadcasted from his position among the club’s audience. His voice took on the tone he normally reserved for delicate, uncomfortable situations, something John didn’t fail to notice. He grinned to himself as he left the bathroom, imagining Harold Finch, stuffy and straight-laced in his three piece suit, surrounded by the sights and sounds of the gay strip club.

“Something wrong, Harold?” he asked, false innocence dripping from his words like honey. “You seem a little distracted.” The number, Dandolo, was sitting on a bench in the middle of the backstage change room when John entered. He watched in interest as the man wiggled to squeeze himself into a pair of red latex shorts. 

“I’m quite fine, Mr. Reese,” Harold huffed. “I don’t see what would be distracting about being surrounded by one, two,  _ three _ gyrating young men. Nor about the people willing to climb over tables to,  _ Excuse me! _ ” There was a clatter, and the sound of a glass breaking. “-To stuff their  _ thongs _ with dollar bills.” His voice was noticeably higher than usual, and Reese could imagine the corresponding blush, almost as red as the shorts Dandolo was still trying to pull over his ass.

“Need a hand, there?” John asked amiably, taking long, loose strides towards the number.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr.-”

“Rick, right?” John continued as the half-dressed man shook his hand. Harold quieted. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Dandolo said with an absent smile, moving his hands back to the hem of the shorts. John watched him deliberately pull each of his cheeks out the bottom before trying to fasten them again. “I think I’m probably good with these, actually. And you are?” 

“I’m the new guy. John Randall,” Reese replied, hoping he was achieving a carefree grin. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Those our lockers?” Dandolo, distracted by something on his cell phone, took a moment to process the question.

“Oh, yeah,” he said quickly, not looking up from the screen. “Sorry, I need to…” he trailed off as he brought the phone to his ear, making towards the back door without another word. John chose a locker and began getting undressed.

“You bluejacked his phone, right, Finch?” he asked as he folded his bulky motorcycle jacket and laid it on the shelf. 

“Yes, I’m listening in right now. It would appear that Dandolo’s roommate has been arrested by a narcotics officer. The roommate’s boyfriend is requesting assistance with the bail.” John heard Finch take a small sip of an unknown beverage as he continued to listen in on the number’s phone call. “That’s strange. I could have sworn the roommate was single- Oh.”

“What’s happening, Finch?” Reese muttered, struggling to pull off John Randall’s black pants over the boots that Finch had gifted him with the rest of the cover’s clothes- skintight jeans, vintage cotton t-shirts that followed every contour of his chest, and, of course, a half a dozen Armani thongs. The motorcycle jacket was his own idea, one that Finch very quickly approved once John demonstrated it for him. The wardrobe evoked exactly everything John, in this cover, had to be: laid-back, easygoing, sensual, and, most importantly, willing to grind his nearly bare ass in the laps of the rich, middle-aged men who formed most of the club’s clientele for his paycheck. Everything fit impeccably, even down to the tight gold fabric that currently covered his cock, and John wondered just how much time and effort Finch had put into making him look so...  _ fuckable _ . He adjusted the front of his thong, which suddenly struck him as a little tight.

“Well, it seems Dandolo had the same notion as I did. He terminated the call with the ‘boyfriend’, and is calling his roommate, now.” There was a breathless pause as John stashed his phone and firearm in the locker. The earpieces he and Finch wore were military grade, and could stay tethered to a communication device for over a hundred meters, which more than covered the club’s perimeter. Still, he felt uncomfortable knowing there might come a situation where he would be separated from Finch, or his gun. Before he could think too deeply about it, Finch continued. “He’s given his friend a false location in Yonkers, but isn’t mentioning the very likely  _ dangerous _ gang members who may attempt to extract information from him- Excuse me? No, I’m not, of course,” there was the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor as Finch accepted some muffled thanks. “Nor has he warned him to not return to the apartment,” he finished. 

“He must be trying to buy some time, if he knows they’re going to mine the roomie for his location,” John said as he waved back to the club’s manager, Wyatt, who had just entered from the floor. The sun-damaged, blonde man beckoned him with a manicured hand. “Going quiet, Finch. Boss wants me.” 

There was a sound that made Reese wonder if Finch had choked on his drink. “Of course, Mr. Reese,” he responded after a second, “I’ve texted the address to our police liaisons, they may be able to stop the threat to Mr. Dandolo before it even reaches the club.”

“Johnny!” Wyatt exclaimed as he pulled John into a hug, which he cautiously returned once the shock wore off. Wyatt slapped him amicably between the shoulders, and pulled back. “Ready for your first show?”

“Not my first, Wyatt,” John corrected. While Reese had never touched a pair of tear-away pants before yesterday, John  _ Randall _ had worked at a small roadside club outside of Waco, Texas, for four months. “Yes, I’m ready,” he answered with what, to him, felt like an easy smile. The routine a few of the old timers had taught him the day before was simple enough. John honestly hadn’t expected the strength he developed in hand to hand combat and heavy weapons specialization to transfer to pole dancing as well as it did. He found it easy to hoist his body gracefully into a slow, sensual spin, or quickly over his head for an inversion landing his spine on the pole and hips thrusting through the air. He also hadn’t expected the supporting metal rod below his loft to work as well as it did for a sleepless night of practice. John wondered if Finch had ever considered such a thing when signing the apartment’s ownership papers.

Wyatt led John to a rack at the back of the room, where a couple of the other strippers, these two dressed as a fireman and a lumberjack, were gathering costumes off the floor and rearranging them on their hangers. John caught a glimpse of Rick’s bright red shorts cornering the hall to the stage as Wyatt seemingly randomly picked a costume off the rack. John eyed the navy slacks, shining metal handcuffs, and matching blue cap.

“I’m a cop?” he asked as Wyatt dumped the clothing in his arms. John could hear Harold’s distinct snicker through the earpiece. Wyatt seemed enthusiastic about the costuming, and left before John could ask for another option.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, Detective Stills,” Finch said sardonically. The return to his usual humour made it clear to Reese that he was getting more comfortable. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me take a photo for our friends in New York’s finest?”

John was preparing an equally sarcastic reply when the announcer’s booming voice introduced Dandolo to the stage, interrupting both of their trains of thought. The sound echoed tinnily through each of their earpieces. John, outfitted in the tight, stiff pants, and a cap that had as much resemblance to a real beat cop’s as grape soda does to grapes, stared at the handcuffs Wyatt had passed him, unsure of where exactly they should go.

“Maybe I should just cuff him now, Finch,” he muttered as he settled on clipping them securely to his belt. “Might save us all some time.” 

“I would rather you didn’t, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied, something that sounded suspiciously like a gasp following his words. “At least, not until he’s finished his… choreography.” John, reclining on a beat-up orange sofa, felt a moment of jealousy for the other man who had gained his boss’ approval.

“Enjoying the show, Harold?” he teased lightly, picking up a nail file from the couch’s arm and pretending to know how to use it for anything unrelated to breaking and entering. From the sounds of the cheers feeding through his earpiece, Finch wouldn’t be alone if he was. 

“It would appear that Mr. Dandolo is very popular with the club’s patrons. I’m not sure why such a talented man would resort to _ larceny _ when he has already made at least two hundred dollars by picking up bills with his buttocks. Not to mention the, oh, one hundred and fifty small bills littering the stage,” Finch said quickly. Reese snorted. At first, he thought Harold had been joking when he said he’d accompany John to the club, as a patron. Now, he had more of an idea why. Finch seemed to be having a lot of fun. “Besides,” he continued, still obviously distracted by the naked, shimmying man few feet away, “he’s not my type.”

“Oh?” Reese probed, suddenly very curious about the tastes of his reserved boss. “And who is?” This one, Finch wouldn’t answer. They sat in familiar silence until John struck up a conversation with one of his one-night coworkers. The man, like everyone else he had met at the club, was nice, nicer than the people he usually met while undercover. He almost regret that John Randall’s sister would fall dangerously ill tomorrow, forcing him to move back home to Abilene, TX, leaving his new job behind. Though, depending on how the number panned out, Reese knew he might not exactly be welcomed back after the shooting, slashing, or breaking he might have to do.

Soon, Wyatt’s voice called out John’s name from the side stage. John adjusted his cap once in the mirror before getting up. Looking at his tan body, all lean muscle and rough scars, he had to admit that the profession suited him- if he looked past the grey hairs, at least. John finished primping and made his way to his waving manager. Through his earpiece, Finch unnecessarily informed him that Dandolo’s show seemed to be coming to an end. Reese found the way the riské scene seemed to be making Harold short-circuit a little endearing.

“Best of luck, Mr. Reese,” came Finch’s inscrutable voice through the earpiece, the last thing John registered before the bright spotlights and salacious cheering of the crowd temporarily stunned him. He hesitated a second, only a second, at the top of the stage. His eyes got used to the light, and he could clearly see the faces of the men watching him- some were smiling, hooting, others looking intensely concentrated, all staring straight at him. 

Reese felt, to say the least, a  _ little _ overwhelmed. His thoughts began an anxious spiral: he was used to anonymity, used to being unremarkable, used to slipping between the cracks. He was almost ready to bolt backstage, grab Dandolo by the back of his tiny red shorts, and hide out in a motel room until Carter and Lionel diffused the situation- and then he saw him.

Finch was one of the only men still seated, hands politely folded on a table to the right of the catwalk. Though he might have looked out of place earlier, now that Reese was on the stage, he was in his element. To anyone else, the face he wore might have looked impassive, but John knew how to see past the small, straight line of his mouth, or his arched, unmoving eyebrows. He could see the gentle, firm encouragement, the pride in Harold’s eyes. It was the face that he wore when he knew that he wouldn’t be let down, a face that made a warmth grow in John’s belly, soon flowing through every inch of his body. A confident smile found its way to Reese’s lips as he began flaunting his way to the pole in the center of the stage. As he turned his head to make eye contact with the rest of the crowd, he could have sworn that Finch grinned back. By the time he could look back, the smile, if there ever was one, was gone.

John did his best not to look at Finch for as long as he could, after that. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would see if he did. Would Harold be disgusted by his shamelessness in grinding his hips down slowly, methodically for the men eager to pass him their small bills? Would he be disinterested in the way Reese’s arousal was tenting the front of the thong? John remembered exactly how enraptured Finch had been by Dandolo’s performance. Was it possible that Harold’s silence was not born of distaste or discomfort, but from suppressing the same low groans that watching the number’s lithe body dance had caused? Reese put the thought out of his mind, not because he didn’t want to think about the possibility, but because he didn’t want to think about how much he wanted it to be  _ true _ . 

The train of thought made him realize just how quiet Finch had been. Uncharacteristic, even if the man  _ was _ being somehow affected by John’s performance- again, John reminded himself not to consider it. Reese backed up down the catwalk, rubbing his warm, calloused hands up his sweaty torso, travelling over his stomach (which was a bit rounder now that Finch made him eat three meals a day), to his firm, defined pectorals. His left hand rolled and pinched one nipple as he rubbed up his neck with his other hand, tapping his earpiece as covertly as possible. 

At least, he would tap his earpiece. 

If it was there. 

John felt his blood run cold. He snapped his neck to Finch’s table, and found the man watching him with the same expression of panic. Reese pointed at his ear surreptitiously as Finch already nodded impatiently, eyes wide. Harold made a hand motion of flicking something invisible out of his ear with one hand, pointing at the pole with the other. He rolled his hands around each other for good measure, though the message was already clear- John had lost his earpiece. He had untethered himself. Lost his only connection to Finch. He felt anxious, unsteady already. He tried not to show it as he fell to his knees on center stage, lifting his hips and leaning his head on the ground, his eyes not leaving Finch’s face. The insecurity their loss of communication brought in him was enough to break the barrier he had constructed in his mind. Now, John found that he could not look away from Finch’s wide, blue eyes. Reese watched as a complex emotion crossed Harold’s face, and wasn’t sure exactly what his employer was going to do. He watched as Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and-

“Keep going!” Finch hooted in his best impersonation of a clubgoer. In contrast, the expression on his face was a stiff, self-conscious scowl of distaste, and his posture more suited to high tea than a strip club. John let himself laugh, a little, feeling a warm confidence flood through his capillaries again as he watched Finch stand up and make his way towards the back wall. Finch knew what to do. Finch had a plan. Finch had given him a order- to keep going. And he would, comfortably, until the next order came. John watched Harold disappear into the crowd, and wondered, as he dangled his now-shed thong over his shoulder, if Finch was disappointed to miss the final reveal. He left the stage to the kind of cheering he hadn’t heard since pitching a perfect game in his sophomore year of high school.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Randall, you did fantastic out there,” Wyatt beamed, clapping both his hands on Reese’s naked shoulders. Fighting his instincts, Reese let himself be shaken, slightly. His erection, half-softened, flapped against his thigh uncomfortably, but Wyatt’s eyes stayed locked to his, despite the situation happening near his stomach. It was a small thing that John was thankful for. 

“Glad you think so, sir,” John accepted the praise with grace, bowing his head. The harsh white light of the stage’s spotlight shone through from under the curtain, lighting the ground John stared at demurely. He wiggled his toes, and watched the shadows cast from them dance. He suddenly remembered Finch, and wondered where his partner had gotten to. John shot a quick look at the locker where his phone resided, but before he could make a move for it, Wyatt’s leathery arm snaked its way across his shoulders. Though Reese could easily dislodge the man with his training, the desire to avoid breaking his cover meant that John allowed Wyatt to effectively herd him into the club’s office, dropping him on a ratty orange sofa. “Something wrong?” he asked, unease creeping into his voice. 

Wyatt watched, for a silent moment, removing his sunglasses and folding them into his pocket. In the fluorescent lighting, Reese was struck by how much older the man was than he had originally made him to be. The manager’s face broke into a sheepish smile, accompanied by an equally weak laugh.

“Not at all,” Wyatt began, as John realized he was still naked. He pulled his shed thong back up his thighs, adjusting the fit of the cup as Wyatt continued. “The opposite, really. Now, let me start here, Johnny- you’re under no obligation to say yes. We don’t  _ do _ this at this club, get it? For everyone’s sake, I only want you to say yes if you won’t regret it later.” John nodded, intrigued by the direction his night could take. He was impressed by Wyatt’s proposition- his superiors in his previous job had been much less considerate of his consent, and that job wasn’t even  _ supposed _ to be sex work. Wyatt did his best to gauge John’s facial expression before continuing. 

“One guy was so impressed with your performance, Randall, that he wants you. Privately.” The confession sent shivers down John’s spine. He had only come to terms with his attraction to men in the past year, and between kneecapping and breaking and entering, hadn’t had the time to actually explore anyone else’s attraction to him. He was flattered, and privately, excited. Wyatt picked a poppy seed out of his teeth. “He’s willing to pay a boat load, I  _ will _ be honest. You’ll go home with 30%.” 

John nodded. The money didn’t matter to him that much, anymore. Not with how well Finch took care of him. John Randall, however, would be enticed by the offer. A slight pang of guilt stabbed through him as he remembered Finch, still working the number without his help, while Reese traipsed off to take another man’s cock. John squashed it down- it was silly to think that Harold would care what John did with his sex life, so long as he wasn’t being hurt. 

“What does he expect?” John asked, finally. The grin on Wyatt’s face widened by two more teeth.

“He didn’t say- just that he wanted some private time. But if he’s like the usual clientele, a lapdance,” Wyatt replied, forced casual tone obvious from a mile away, “And you know, afterwards, he’ll want to…” his tanned hands raised to rest on the waist of an invisible person in his lap, pulling the ghost body downwards as he thrust up. Reese mentally cursed the flush he could feel on his cheeks. He thought about the strange arousal that performing for the men had given him- something different than anything he had ever felt with Jess, or Zoe. He thought about the bulge in Wyatt’s pants as he thrust into the imaginary John Randall on his lap. He thought about his tight, tight gold thong. 

“I’ll do it,” he decided. Wyatt practically beamed. Jumping out of his chair, Wyatt’s arm wormed its way back around John’s back, lifting him and leading him from the office quickly.

“You know, I’m very glad to hear that, John. Let me just run you through some  _ advice, _ ” Wyatt said, continuing on through a loose set of guidelines as he led Reese through the backstage. Reese listened to the manager, but kept an eye open as he walked past the other workers at the club. There was no sign of Dandolo. If Finch needed him, he reasoned, he would have found a way backstage by now. Or pulled a fire alarm. Though the spartan bathroom that Wyatt had led him to wasn’t exactly the most relaxing of settings, Reese reasoned that he could safely take the opportunity to kick back. Once he was prepared, at least. 

Wyatt showed him to the stash of enemas he had earlier uncovered, and Reese pretended to be surprised. He was thankful that extenuating circumstances involving rehydration and mouth injuries during his second tour meant that the enema bottle that Wyatt pressed into his hand would not be the first he had given himself. Fumbling with the procedure would be a dead giveaway: John Randall was be expected to be a professional. John thanked him for the opportunity, and with a short set of directions leading him to the room he would meet his client in, Wyatt left the bathroom.

Twenty-five minutes later, John Reese, clean, lubricated, and stretched comfortably to three of his own fingers (which he assumed was more than wide enough for even a guy on the thicker end of the scale) stood outside the private room his client waited in, stripped back down to his shiny black boots and equally shiny thong. Though his asshole felt loose and slick, Reese still needed to mentally prepare himself. His face twitched in frustration when his thoughts drifted back to his partner, wondering whether he was safe, if he needed help. Not wanting to waste any more of Finch’s time on Reese’s own carnal pleasures, he nodded stiffly at the bouncer, who led him into the dimly lit room. 

_ Well, _ John thought,  _ he’s definitely safe. _ In a plush, wide armchair in the middle of jewel-toned room sat Harold Finch, a martini glass of something bright blue clutched in one hand, other hand resting calmly on the arm of the chair. On Finch’s left, a half-wall revealed the club’s other patrons, elevated at an angle where seeing directly into the room was difficult. Frozen in shock, John briefly considered diving out onto the dance floor, to save Finch from the shame of having to receive Reese’s ill-advised lapdance. The bouncer cleared his throat.

Harold must have seen something in his face, because when Reese snapped back to attention, Finch’s hands were empty, palms laid open, and his eyes were calm. How Harold was managing to look so soothing when Reese felt like a rabbit with its leg caught in a trap, Reese didn’t know. Most confusingly, each beat of John’s racing heart sent a heavy wave of arousal pulsing through his hips. His eyes flickered to the groin of the dark turquoise slacks that covered Finch’s spread legs. 

_ Oh. _

The assured warmth he had experience on the stage hit him again in full force as he rolled his shoulders and stalked towards the man in the wide chair. Putting his calloused hand on Finch’s shoulder, Reese felt the closest to giddy that he thought himself capable of. The action was familiar, the feeling of the seam of Harold’s jacket puckering under his palm nothing new to Reese, but the sheepish, flushed expression on Finch’s face definitely was. The small gasp that his boss let out when John used his other hand to urge his legs open was instantly addictive. He had to hear more, and like that, Reese was determined to make this very, very good for Finch. He placed a knee between Finch’s thighs, watching the man’s pupils grow dark and blown out, the expression on his face replaced with what could only be described as a polite form of hunger. Reese’s head dipped to hover over Finch’s ear as he swung his other leg to brace against the arm of the chair, his lips dangerously close to Harold’s ear. He could smell Finch’s cologne- piney and fresh as ever, barely betraying the musk of his arousal. 

“Hello, Harold,” John purred into Finch’s ear, savoring the way that Harold’s hand immediately came to hold his waist. Desperation was etched into the grip, as polite as Reese knew that his employer was trying to make it. The attention warmed every inch of Reese’s body, making him hyperaware of the flex of his musculature, the bulge of his crotch, and the cool a/c breeze on his slick asshole. He felt his cock grow heavy in the front of his revealing underwear when he remembered what Wyatt had told him to expect from the session. Would Finch…? 

The choked moan that Finch let out as Reese began smoothly driving his hips into the air interrupted his speculation. Finch’s hand crept downwards, hesitating at the string of Reese’s thong. The thong that Harold had bought for him, chosen for him to wear. The possessiveness in the act was not lost on Reese. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that he found it as arousing as he did. Finch’s hand hovered for a moment, as if he was unsure of what he wanted to do. Or where to start with doing what he wanted. Eventually, he settled on snapping the string against Reese’s hip indulgently, the sound cutting through the electronic music booming in the club. Finch, unable to turn his head to whisper in return, leaned forwards.

“Mr. Dandolo and his would-be assassins have both been apprehended, and are safely being held separately in police custody. Detective Carter tells me that the stolen money has yet to be found; though I have full faith in her ability to locate it.” John had to suppress a chuckle. Finch, as calm as his exterior may be, was speaking faster than Reese had ever heard him. He hadn’t taken a breath since starting his rant. “-You’ll have to excuse the circumstances of our meeting, at the time I wasn’t aware if you would need to continue this identity or not. I didn’t expect to be made to wait so _long_ , I’m not sure what you could have possibly been doing, I only just received word from Detective Carter. By no means must you _continue_ this charade, Mr. Reese, in fact-”

“Do you want me to stop, Finch?” Reese whispered, his voice coming from somewhere deep in his throat. Finch didn’t reply. “Because I’m more than happy to keep up the  _ charade, _ ” Reese added. The number was wrapped up, Harold had paid for the private room, and, John realized, seemed to be enjoying it as much as John was himself. The dark fabric of Finch’s pants did very little to conceal the erection straining his fly. Reese breathed in sharply, taking in the heft of it, trying to imagine its shape.

It looked  _ fat.  _ John repressed a moan.

Acutely aware of how much thicker Harold’s erection looked than his fingers, John grabbed his own obscenely hard bulge. His cock, thick and heavy, stretched the limits of the thong. When he let go, moving both his hands to the back of Finch’s neck, planting a knee on either side of his thighs, and leaned forwards, Reese  _ knew _ that the fabric wouldn’t be able to stop his erection from dipping forwards, stretching the thong, letting Harold see it all. In fact, he was counting on it. The sounds of the club throbbing in the back of his mind, John watched Finch’s eyes trail downwards with a feeling of blindingly white hot pride. With a choked grunt, Harold’s composed face contorted into something like ecstasy- eyes half-closed, pupils wide, focused on his body, mouth a soft “o”. Reese drank in the picture in front of him, the way that Finch’s hands twitched once, twice, before jumping lightning-fast to palm each of John’s hips, firm, steady, power radiating off his touch. John hadn’t realized just how much he had needed this, needed Finch directing him, controlling him. Dominating him. 

“No, Mr. Reese,” Finch whispered, hands travelling to grasp John’s ass with a strength that made John groan. “I want you to give me what I paid for.” Reese’s hips jerked forwards instinctively, pressing his groin against Harold’s sloppily. Correcting himself, he pulled back and began rhythmically rolling his hips, barely brushing against Finch, teasing him. He steadied himself on Finch’s shoulders, drunk on the way he minutely pulled John’s hips down to brush against his, the soft hum of approval in the back of his throat. “Is this good, John?” Harold said quietly, his breath intimately soothing the hairs on the back of Reese’s neck.

“Yes.” It was an easy, immediate answer. It wasn’t just good- it was perfect. Reese felt safe, secure, wanted,  _ kept _ under Finch’s hands. And aroused. He also felt very, very aroused- an insistent buzz of heat pooling in his groin. Reese stepped off of the chair, Finch’s hands drawing back to twitch on the armrests. John put his hand on top of Harold’s, long fingers dancing up his arm fluidly as he stalked around the chair. After a full rotation, John found himself facing the stool where the bouncer sat, scrolling through something on his phone. John was slightly relieved. Clearly, he was doing a passable job upholding his cover. It was a strategic move in more ways than one, though, and he was extremely satisfied to hear the throaty moan that escaped from Finch’s mouth when Reese lowered himself into a squat, spreading his legs, letting his ass hover obscenely over Finch’s tenting lap. If Harold hadn’t known what had delayed John so much earlier, he definitely did now, the string of John’s thong framing his slick, prepared asshole more than hiding it.

“Ohhh,  _ excellent, _ ” Finch groaned, voice barely above a breath. Encouraged by the praise, desperate for more, John began pressing down and back with his hips, mentally relaxing his tight asshole, spreading himself for Finch. “Ah, very good, Mr. Reese. Ahh.” His moan was relieved as John lowered himself to barely brush his asshole against Finch’s clothed erection. John shot a quick glance behind him. The restraint that Finch was trying to force himself into was cracked, crumbling under the weight of his arousal. His hands, still clenching the armrests, looked ready to take off at any moment. His eyes snapped up to meet John’s.

“You can touch me, Harold,” John invited, deep voice resonating through the room. Harold’s eyes widened. “I’m yours.” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider how honestly and deeply he meant them.

“Oh, John,” Finch moaned, devotion peeking through the lust. Reese had the feeling that they’d need to have a serious conversation about their feelings after they were done, but John couldn’t help but look forwards to that, as well, seeing the affection he felt for Harold mirrored in the man’s own face. Finch’s hands finally sprung into motion, planting themselves firmly on each of John’s ass cheeks, spreading him open hungrily, thumbs moving with religious reverence to expose John’s wet asshole. “Oh,  _ Mr. Reese, _ ” Harold breathed, voice shaking with emotion. A deep shudder of pleasure travelled from his hands up Reese’s back, making John’s ears hot and breathing laboured. He ground downwards against Finch’s hands. He wanted this, he wanted Harold to see his most intimate places, to expose them, to touch them. Every muscle in his body was tensed with that want, and when Finch finally brushed a thumb over Reese’s rim, it exploded in a loud, desperate moan which made even John himself gasp. He hung his head to his chest, let himself purr with the pure, animalistic desire for Finch. Harold’s breath was frequently catching in his throat as his thumb began rubbing rhythmic circles around John’s entrance, coaxing the tight ring of muscle to relax. Needing more, John pressed his hips backwards, trying to encourage Finch to press his thumb into John’s asshole. To his surprise, Harold’s grip on his hips tightened and lifted him away, the addictive pressure on his rim lessening. Reese groaned weakly in comprehension- it would be up to Finch when, where, and how he would get fucked. Finch’s thumb prodded at his hole, again, drawing another heavy groan out of Reese’s chest. He needed it. He needed Finch inside him. Submission coursing through his veins like a drug, John felt no shame in pleading.

“Harold,” he begged, voice rising higher with each teasing dip that the blunt pad of Finch’s thumb took into the tight muscle of his ass. “ _ Please, _ Finch.” Harold hummed deeply in reply. 

“Let me take care of you, Mr. Reese,” Finch soothed, pleasure and affection dripping through his voice like honey. Just hearing Harold say his name in this state made John throw his head back and groan. His thumb briefly disappeared, making Reese whine unabashedly. When it came back, it was gloved, and wet with more lubricant. “You’ve been so very, very  _ good _ , John,” Harold continued, using the deep relaxation that the praise sent through Reese’s body to press his thumb slowly, steadily into John’s asshole. “Ohh, John,” Finch whispered, “very good.”

John arched his back, moaning wantonly, openly. He knew that the noise would attract attention through half-wall on his left, but he didn’t,  _ couldn’t _ care. Finch’s thumb slipped into him easily, working deeper and deeper into his loosened body. John felt like he was on fire. Harold was touching him, Harold was touching his asshole, Harold was  _ inside his ass.  _ John braced himself on his own knees, choking out another moan. The mental image of the fat bulge in Harold’s pants was driving him crazy. He felt stretched open enough with both of Harold’s thumbs in him, now, each rubbing soothing patterns into the walls of his anus, he was being driven out of his mind imagining taking Harold’s thick cock. “More, Finch. Please.”

“Patience, Mr. Reese,” he chided gently, fingertips tapping reassuringly against John’s cheeks. Reese could get lost in his voice, the safety it had come to mean for him, the trust he had learned to place in it. He loved following Harold’s orders, craved it, even, but right now, he wasn’t sure that he could be patient. Finch interrupted him before he could continue pleading. “John, I want you to relax for me. Let me see you.” His voice was gentle, and the pressure his thumbs were putting on John’s rim was steady. Reese obeyed, mentally relaxing his anus, and like that, Finch’s thumbs were stretching him open, obscenely exposing his slick anus to the man behind him.

For a moment, Finch was breathless, staring at John’s gaping, pulsing asshole. When his heart finally restarted, the breath he let out was shaky, nearly whiny with arousal. Carefully, Harold retracted his thumbs, replacing them immediately with two dextrous fingers. John jolted upwards with a yelp, the digits immediately focusing on his prostate, rubbing it with relentless, gentle circles. Reese felt relieved and desperate all at the same time, his jaw falling open as his eyes fell closed. 

“Is that good, John?” Finch asked, other hand moving to stroke his partner’s boney hip. His fingers began scissoring, palpating Reese’s prostate in a way that fulfilled him like ambrosia. John choked on his moan, overwhelmed by the pleasure he felt.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he repeated, a mantra, riding Finch’s fingers as the man easily slipped a third in beside them, dripping with even more lube. Reese felt intoxicated. He felt free, free to feel, to want, to enjoy. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was aware of the rest of the club, of the bouncer, of the number, but in the moment, all that he could think about was Harold, Harold’s fingers, and Harold’s cock.

“Mr. Reese, I would like to have you now, may I-”

“Yes, Finch.” Reese cut him off in a growl, hoarse and raw. “Fuck me. Jesus, just fuck me.”

Harold’s hands immediately drew back, and for a moment, Reese was treated to nothing more than the darkness of his own eyelids and a plethora of erotic sounds. Harold snapping the glove off his hand, Harold unbuckling his belt, Harold unzipping his fly. At the sound of a foil packet being torn open, Reese turned his head over his shoulder, knees shaking. There, lying heavy against his clothed belly, was Harold’s cock. Reese trembled, overwhelmed with the desire to kneel and suck the beautiful thing. It was thick, thicker than Reese could have imagined, with a blunt, round head. He was cut, unlike John’s own cock, and all five or so inches flushed to a deep pink, curving upwards to press against the lowest button of his waistcoat, smearing it with his tantalizing pre-cum. John looked up at Harold’s face, and found him staring at his, hands frozen on the condom. John licked his lips.

“Wow,” he said, after a second. Finch’s face broke into a bashful smile, and with a snort, he rolled the condom onto his fat cock. “You’re beautiful,” John added, hoping that his message wasn’t misinterpreted. Finch took himself in his left hand.

“And so are you, Mr. Reese,” he smiled, reaching up with his right to stroke the back of his hand down John’s cheek. His thumb, and gaze, lingered on Reese’s mouth. John let his mouth fall open, closing his top lip over Finch’s thumb, twirling his tongue around the tip in a way that he hoped would be pleasant. Harold’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and John smiled, obsessed already to the way Finch looked when he was being pleasured. “So beautiful,” Harold moaned as he moved his hand to the back of John’s head, giving the hair there a quick tug to straighten his neck again. He stroked his hand down John’s spine, over scars and moles, vertebrae and ribs, and grabbed his hip with determination. Holding John steady, Finch lined up his blunt cockhead with John’s asshole, thong pushed unceremoniously aside. Slowly, surely, Finch pulled John down onto his cock, the heat of the stretch burning through every cell in John’s body. He sobbed out a noise, somewhere between a yes and a please, feeling Finch’s fat cock filling him in a way he never could have imagined. Harold’s noises were no more dignified, relieved moans and whining, breathless hums spilling out of him shamelessly as he lowered John onto his shaft. 

“John,” he whispered like a prayer when Reese was fully seated in his lap, writhing against his thighs, Harold’s cock sheathed inside his ass. John clenched around Finch’s cock, the tip driving into his prostate with every grinding movement he pressed down into Harold’s lap. He was close, every movement of Finch’s wrapped cock against his prostate making his cock twitch, half-confined by his thong. Reese gripped his knees, desperately trying to keep a hold on his orgasm for a little longer. 

“John,” Harold repeated, “Ride me.” Any of Reese’s efforts to control himself were lost. He came with a cry, semen splattering across his stomach, falling onto Harold’s pants. He was crazed, desperate as he began to ride Finch, lifting himself quickly and slamming himself back down onto the hard cock buried in his ass. The pressure on his overstimulated prostate was nearly overwhelming, but John didn’t want to stop himself, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. Not with the way that Finch was moaning, gasping, and sobbing behind him, free hand carding itself in John’s hair. Reese rode Finch’s cock like he was living for it, letting it pound his ass, relishing the hard and fast thrust of Harold’s shaft driving his mind to white-hot pleasure as he plowed himself on Finch. 

“So beautiful,” Finch choked out after a minute of wordless groans, pulling John’s head back, drawing another needy moan out of his throat as he fucked himself in Harold’s lap. “So beautiful, my John. So good.” John groaned in reply, clenching himself as tight as he could around Harold’s cock. The choked, garbled noise that Finch made in reply was the most gratifying sound that Reese could imagine. “So  _ tight _ !” Harold cried, both hands grabbing John’s thin hips, using what must have been every ounce of strength in his body to lift them, to impale his partner on his cock over, and over again. “ _ John!”  _ Finch yelled, slamming Reese’s body down onto him, bending over to rest his forehead against John’s midback. “John, I’m going to-”

Reese found his voice again, suddenly. “Do it, Finch,” he implored, voice heavy, “Cum in me. I’m yours.” John didn’t need to hear the surprised, strangled moan that Harold released to know he had reached his orgasm. He felt the tip of the condom bulge inside him with Finch’s cum, the indescribable heat becoming somehow even hotter. He whined, moaned, imagined how it would feel down the back of his throat, on his chest, on his own cock. They stayed like that for a moment, Finch’s moans dying down into heavy panting that matched John’s own. John could feel Harold’s body rising and falling with each breath, his head still resting against John’s spine. Sobering up from the sexual haze, Reese looked up at the bouncer, who seemed blessedly unaffected by the performance. The man quirked an eyebrow at John, who nodded quickly. Picking up his leather jacket off the floor, the bouncer stood and left as Finch’s cock began to slip out of John’s asshole.

“Oh dear,” Harold mumbled, springing into action to remove and tie the condom before it slipped off. As Finch threw it neatly in the wastebin under the side table, Reese finally allowed his knees to give out, falling backwards onto the chair between Harold’s knees. Resting his head on Finch’s shoulder, he looked up at his partner in a post-coital daze.

“That was amazing, Fin-” John was cut off by Harold’s gentle lips on his, hand cradling his chin as soft as a caress. With his other hand, Harold urged Reese’s knees to bend, positioning the gangly man to be folded in his lap, legs laying lazily over the armrest of the chair. When Finch pulled away from the chaste kiss, there was a tenderness and love in his eyes that John had never expected to see directed at him again. Emotions welled in John’s chest- love, devotion, and most importantly, safety. 

“You were amazing,” Finch said as the stroked the hair back from John’s greying temple. “You are amazing, John.” He leaned in for another kiss, this time pressing it to John’s cheek. He stayed that way for a moment, hand on Reese’s head, lips against his cheek, before speaking again. “Mr. Reese,” he began, as if he wasn’t sure where to go from there.

“Yes, Finch?” John mumbled, endorphins flowing through his body making him warm and lazy. He traced a slow circle on Finch’s knee, the most energy he felt able to expend at the moment.

“I believe I may be in love with you,” Harold finally said, lips moving against Reese’s cheek, hand stroking down his face again.

“Sure hope you are,” Reese said, a small smile breaking into his features. “Because I  _ know _ I’m in love with you.” Harold pulled back, tears crinkling the corners of his eyes. He placed a delicate kiss on John’s lips that made his own eyes wet.

“Of course I am, Mr. Reese,” Finch whispered against his lips. “I always have been. Always.”

“And we can do this again?” John asked, nipping at Harold’s lower lip.

“Yes,” Finch replied, gasping in an exhausted breath. “I would like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was a wild ride to write (heh) im very happy that i finally feel like its ready to be published! please leave your thoughts below (explicit as they may be- i love any sort of feedback!) and check out my blog lionelfusco.tumblr.com where you can always send a request if you so choose!! thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed


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